


The Challenge

by LaDeeDa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But thats okay cause, Drunkenness, Everyone in the inquisition camp hears you, F/M, Face-Fucking, Heavy Drinking, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Outdoor Sex, Reader-Insert, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spanking, Tent Sex, Vaginal Sex, With his horns as handles, you got to ride Bull's face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21718387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDeeDa/pseuds/LaDeeDa
Summary: “The Iron Bull and his men have caused me no problems thus far, I just wish he would stop challenging the foot soldiers to drinking contests.” - Josephine MontilyetA whole FanFic based off this one quote that I found very funny in my current playthrough.Challenging The Iron Bull to a drinking contest was an utterly stupid move, everyone witnessing the event thought so, you could see it in their fiendish grins. But you weren’t stupid. This wasn’t about winning at who could give themselves alcohol poisoning quickest, it was an easy way to get both yourself and him very drunk, very quickly. If you were visibly plastered he could rebuke you that night when you visited his tent and in the morning you could pretend to not even remember speaking to him the previous day, it might even give you the ability to say the words you had bottled up inside for so long…~Reader-Insert fic in which you are a soldier in The Inquisition's army. (Vulva/vagina genitals. No pronouns used.)
Relationships: Iron Bull/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

“The Iron Bull and his men have caused me no problems thus far, I just wish he would stop challenging the foot soldiers to drinking contests.” - Josephine Montilyet

Challenging The Iron Bull to a drinking contest was an utterly stupid move, everyone witnessing the event thought so, you could see it in their fiendish grins. But you weren’t stupid. This wasn’t about winning at who could give themselves alcohol poisoning quickest, it was an easy way to get both yourself and him very drunk, very quickly. If you were visibly plastered he could rebuke you that night when you visited his tent and in the morning you could pretend to not even remember speaking to him the previous day, it might even give you the ability to say the words you had bottled up inside for so long…

He slammed another tankard down in front of you, rattling the wooden table and knocking you out of your thoughts. You still had dredges to go in your own mug but you have to make a show to the crowd that this is truly a competition to you - you fling back the last mouthful and it hits the back of your throat mercilessly but you’ve done it, you’ve kept up, and you dangle your tankard over your head to prove it. The man and women of the inquisition cheer from their viewing points around the table, everyone likes an underdog after all. Bull is taller, wider and stronger than you, so of course the audience are just begging for you to put him in his place. You, on the other hand, simply wish to beg him to put you in your place… in private… preferably with no clothes on…

Once again your wandering mind has allowed him to overtake and suddenly the crowd are yelling and heckling at you to hurry up. You grab another tankard from the collection in the centre of the table and take a deep breath before chugging as much as you can in one go. It’s awful and bitter and now that you’re on your fourth mug you begin to feel as though it is up your nose and coming out of your ears. Half-full and sloshing, the tankard drops back to the table and you gasp desperately. This was a terrible idea, utterly terrible. But you’re too far gone now, and he’s not that far ahead…

Your eyes connect and he grins, almost maniacally, very clearly enjoying your struggle. Despite your adult age and relatively high military rank, you pout at him sulkily.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.” He chuckles, “You were all talk four drinks ago.”

You roll your eyes and reply, “Less talking gives you more time for drinking.”

“Too bad this is a battle and not a hike, you don’t need time you need a strong gut!”

You drag your tankard up to your mouth as a blockade to keep in all of the awful and dirty words that wanted to fall out. The last of the now-warm liquid slides down your throat and your drop the cup to the table and push it away weakly.

He is watching you. Grinning at your pathetic attempt to best him.

The wooden table sways towards your face, finally convincing you that enough is enough. You sigh and slide your hands over your face with a long groan.

“Giving up?”

You groan again in reply and hear the scraping of the opposite bench being pushed back against the floor. Bull rises from his seat and approaches you, the alcohol clearly having next to no effect on his mind or body.

“Let’s get you to bed.” He murmurs in your ear before hoisting you up by the armpits and lifting you over the bench behind your knees. You say nothing, allowing yourself to be manhandled out of the front doors and into the biting cold air of the night. You hear a rumble of gossiping voices behind you until the doors clunk shut. Let them talk…

“My tent or yours?” You slur.

“Oh, definitely mine.”

He shifts you over his shoulder, clomping away from the tavern. You bounce limply on his bare chest, enjoying the breeze as he carries you to his temporary living quarters.

Being on the road so long had been tough but he never complained, always strutting around with his sexy grin and his often-times childish sense of humour. Always fighting fit and ready to defend any of his comrades without a moment’s hesitation. Bloodthirsty and brutish and way too sexy to be shirtless twenty-four hours a day…

You gulp audibly, praying that a night of passion will cure your love-sickness.

His tent is three times the size of yours, whether because he himself is three times your size or because he is close the The Inquisitor, you’re not sure. But it is decorated beautifully with simple wooden furnishings and colourful rugs and blankets and and your stomach fills with jealousy instantly.

Jealous of him for his comfortable quarters or jealous of his tent for having him sleep inside it every night? You wonder with hot cheeks.

The heavy draping opening to the tent falls shut and you are plopped onto the ground gracelessly. The alcohol is still holding your limbs captive, as though you are training with weights on your elbows and knees and you slump on a large, fluffy scarlet rug, pleased to simply be close to the ground.

A flurry of thick blankets and plump pillows rained down on top of you as The Iron Bull flung them from his king-sized pop-up bed. Utterly inebriated, you allow the layers of wool and down to snow you under. It is actually incredibly comfortable and you find your your eyes fluttering closed, ale pulling at your lashes.

Deep chuckles pry one of your eyes back open. You are in the lap of someone with legs like tree trunks.

The Iron Bull peers down at you with one raised brow.

Oh yes, you were trying to burrow your way into his pantaloons… The alcohol… so much alcohol… You began to recede back into your head, mortification drowning your brain. You had finally made your move, got your chance, made it into his tent… and you had dozed off… And now you’re slumped across his thighs like a drunken fool…

A hard slap to your rump snaps you out of your stupor and knocks a string of curses from your mouth that would make a dwarf blush.

“What was that for?” You grumble and attempt to pull yourself into a classier position. His large hands press you down into his lap harder, pinning you at the shoulders and lower back.

“Keeping you alert.” He said easily, amusement tingeing his voice,“I don’t fuck anyone too drunk to function, just making sure you’re still with me.”

“I’m definitely alert now.” You wriggle against him again with just as much success. “And sore.” You add sulkily.

“You don’t know what sore is yet, kid.”

Your cunt clenches at his words, you want to find out what sore is.


	2. Chapter 2

Another strike knocks a little more sense into you, and another has you almost coherent. You huff out soft, panting breaths with each smack, your slender fingers sliding into the coarse material of his trousers and clinging desperately. You have given over to the act, no more objections to be found in your mildly-dazed mind. The sting is refreshing, it does not reach the depths of pain you have felt on the field, but it teases you: sparking across your backside and leaving aroused tingles of pleasure crawling over your skin, calling his hand back. His touch coaxing your body into a liquified, obedient state. Despite your much smaller size, you fit his lap well. Chest overhanging his knee and curled feet dangling a few inches above the floor. They twitch with every hit, toes crooking as the searing pleasure travels from your rear, to between your legs and down your thighs.

Your leather boots and loose cloth leggings are stripped away swiftly and your alcohol-addled mind takes a moment to digest the realisation that your most private area is now only covered by your small clothes. And now your underwear is gone too. A shame, really. But what did you need underwear for again? The warm air inside the tent teases at your now-bare slit, cooling the slick that had accumulated. The thought of The Iron Bull had had you wet, but the spanking has you dripping. You could swear it was sliding down the soft skin of your inner thighs, unmarred by battle scars like those that decorated most open stretches on your body. You wriggle a little in his grasp, silently urging him to continue, to do anything but hesitate with you spread half-naked over his knees with a smarting backside.

His single finger has the girth of three human digits and your cunt resists justly when it first attempts to make itself at home. An inch or so squeezes in slowly, tantalisingly, before retreating suddenly. You press your palms against the rug-covered to floor to raise your upper body and release a disappointed whine - why was he giving up so quickly?

“Quiet,” he orders.

You drop your form limply and obey.

The finger returns, but it does not enter slowly this time. In one firm shove, he buries it to the knuckle and your knees jerked wider in shock.

“Ah- Aaah-.”

Your garbled moans amuse him, drawing a light chuckle out that you feel rumble through your frame.

He pulls his finger out until only the tip remains, and slams it back in. If his second hand had not still been resting on your lower back, you may have been thrown out of his lap with the force. It fills you deliciously. With every repeat of the action you cry out louder and his finger gradually contorts into a hook shape until on a particularly vicious thrust, it hits something just below your navel. Something that whites your vision around the edges and causes you to scream.

Your soft, delicate insides clamp around him involuntarily but he fights against the drag, ramming that precious part of you that is rattling your mind from your skull. You don’t have the breath in you to announce your climax but you have no doubt he can feel it for himself. A strangled gasping sound is all you can make as you writhe against the pleasure consuming you. You shudder through the last moments of ecstasy before your body is released back into your own control again.

A second finger joins the first.

He coaxes a second and third orgasm from your body with the ease of a practised marksman, wringing out every drop of pleasure he can get from that awfully sensitive spot that simply will not let you catch your breath. It is pure, addictive pleasure, but you have completely lost control over your body. You feel like a plaything sprawled across his lap, being used to breaking point.

He allows you one shaky breath after the third climax to collect yourself. Then The Iron Bull shoves you from his lap to the blanket pile and presses you into the cushioning, hard. A rush of excitement floods your veins and your legs part instinctively. Hopeful that now you will finally get a taste of what The Iron Bull keeps hidden in his pants.

But he pulls back. He pauses. Then he pulls an item from a small bag tucked under his bedding.

“Do you know what this is?”

You tilt your head to peer through blurring eyes at the item in his large hand. It appears to be a shiny piece of material, although your post-orgasm brain has you rather muddled and you cannot say anything for certain. You cannot remember your own name for certain. You take a guess.

“Silk?”

He chuckles, and you pout at not having been included in the joke.

“It is to cover your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“Yes, but only if you are comfortable with this.”

You attempt to weigh the pros and cons in your mind, but cannot find any cons.

“I… don’t mind,” you mumble.

“If you change your mind, use the word ‘mead’ to let me know.”

“Mead? Why not ‘stop’?”

“Because many of my partners use ‘stop’ and ‘no’ without thought. They never mean it.” The last four words are growled with a sharp grin that causes a clenching sensation between your legs.

The material is tied around your head, blocking your vision completely. You do your best to seem at ease but not being able to see what Bull is planning next is incredibly frustrating. His fingertips ghost at the inside of your thighs, then they’re gone. The flat skin of his cheek bumps this inside of your knee, then he is gone again. You dig your fingers into the blankets beneath you to keep from searching for him with them.

A wide and smooth tongue drags over your vulva slowly and you shudder on an equally slow out-breath. He builds speed at a leisurely pace, lapping and sliding over your lips and clit as though he were enjoying a sweet treat. Whiny, pathetic moans drip from your lips as he feasts between your legs, pressing deeper and harder with every whimper you make. And the sensation is too much. And you cannot keep your limbs in check. Your feet kick out, desperately searching for a hold among the blankets to ground yourself with. Your hands fumble as they reach for him, desperate to find his bulging shoulders, his long arms, his- one of your hands finds the tip of a horn. You grip it desperately in your fist, barely able to wrap your fingers around it’s width, and attempt to pull him in deeper. He growls against your fat outer lips, sending a deep, rumbling layer of pleasure over the intense prickles caused by his tongue. You ignore what you can only assume is a warning and find the other horn with your free hand to pin him in place. His mouth continues to work you into a flurrying bliss, sucking, licking and tongue-fucking like a demon of desire.

You cry out wretchedly, your thighs quaking, and use your hold of his horns to grind your hips upward. More, just a little more. You are on the edge and willing to ride yourself off of it. His tongue thrusts into you and his teeth press dangerously against vulva, almost enough to hurt but certainly enough to remind you of who is truly in charge. On the brink of orgasm though, you struggle to care.

You come with a broken cry so loud it could have been heard in the fade.

When your muscles finally release, the shivers subsiding and allowing your body to drop like a sack of flour, Bull pulls away.

“My horns are not a toy for you to play with. Nor are they a tool for you to fuck my face with.”

Dazed, you do not answer. But your panting breaths are filling the tent with noise regardless.

He chuckles. “And so, we shall advance to the next level of play sooner than I had expected.”

You garble something akin to “the next level?”

“It is necessary for someone who squirms and grapples as you do.” He pauses. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Raise your arms above your head and spread your legs.”

Thin streams of rope slither over your wrists first, binding them together and then tying them to a heavy item that must be acting as an anchor. Then your ankles, pulling them even further apart than you had stretched them and strapping them to two more heavily weighted objects. You pull a little with each hand and foot but there is no budging.

If you weren’t quite so intoxicated, you may have been self-conscious to be spread across The Iron Bull’s tent floor, utterly naked, with soaked pussy pried open for any unsuspecting officer to burst in and see. That thought may or may not have been making you wetter.

The rustle of rough fabric announces that finally, you will receive what you have been silently begging for. The Iron Bull’s trousers hit the ground some way away with a rattle and thud.

The head is thick, but you had been expecting that. You wince a little under the blindfold as he pushes in, but his steady and unhurried entrance allows you to adjust to the stretch. Every time you are sure he is in, he pushes another half inch into you until you are sure he has breached your stomach. Despite not having performed any of the work to get him inside, your breathing is laboured once he finally is. Perhaps it is the strain of accommodating something so large. He chuckles into your ear as though he can hear your thoughts and his breath tickles your skin.

“You took that well,” he murmurs.

“I don’t know whether that is a compliment or not,” you say with a trembling voice.

He groans appreciatively and shifts his hips a little before answering, “definitely a compliment.”

The glacial pace is no more, he pulls back and slams into you with a force that has you grateful for the bindings pinning you to the floor. He is animalistic, growling and snarling in your ear as he claims his pleasure, wrapped up inside of you. With the power of his thrusts, the blanketed floor no longer feels so plush, it presses against your back firmly. If he continues at the pace and intensity he is, you fear your body will be pummelled straight through to the earth beneath the tent matting. But you do not want it to ever end, the feeling of fullness and the pleasure it envelopes you in. One large hand takes your hip to angle you into a slight curve, aiming the tip of his cock for that spot that sends you into a spiral of ecstasy. The other hand flicks gently at your clit with two fingers. Your thighs jerk against your binds in rhythm with your clit’s strumming. The triple combination of his thick cock, your sensitive spot being pressed and your clit being played with is too much. You fling your head back into the pillows with a scream and feel your entire body clench, holding him captive inside of you as you come again.

Despite being aware of very little outside of your own tidal wave of an orgasm, you do feel him release inside of you, and it does nothing to bring you down from the pleasure haze that he has thrown you into. He does not scream through it as you do, his single groan is low and deep and guttural.

Eventually, he pulls free of you. The ropes are untied gently, but you do not move your limbs from where they were bound, you do not have the energy. The blindfold slides from your face and pools beside you among the cushions. You blink blearily, searching for Bull’s face in the weak lamp light. The outline of his strong jaw, angular horns, and eye-patch are enough to soothe you and allow you to release the remaining ebbs of tension from your trembling body.

Far too much alcohol and far too many orgasms catch up with you suddenly, battering you with fatigue in pulsing waves. Your eyelids are fluttering, struggling against the slumber creeping over you.

He chuckles, apparently almost completely unaffected by your coupling. “Do not fight it,” he advises. “You need the rest. You have had a long night, dear.”

With his blessing, your eyes slide shut.


	3. Chapter 3

The clink and clank of swords meeting, shields butting against each other, and armour taking a battering pierces your brain in painful bursts. Your eyes creak open just enough to be assaulted by the light filling your tent, shining through the thin material as though it were paper.

With the sun as fearsome as it is, you are filled with the sickly sensation that you are no doubt late for something. You cannot remember through your hangover haze what that something is, though. Your pounding skull reminds you only of the night before. Of bitter drink and sweet pleasure mixed with pain. In fact, you cannot remember arriving in your tent at all. Had Bull placed you in your bed? Had he kept you in his own tent for any length of time before transferring you? So many questions ripple through your mind, but it is unlikely you will get answers by lying on your back with squinting eyes.

You pull yourself up to a slouching seated position, arms dropping into your lap. Your body aches, especially your backside and hips. He had certainly taught you what sore really is. The hangover is the real cause of pain to you, however - a self-hating pain. That was the part you did to yourself, in your quest to declare your feelings to the man you had been pining after for many moons. But, as far as you remember, the only declarations that were made last night were cries of ecstasy and garbled moans.

If you did not say something today, as soon as you see him, you doubt you will ever have another half-decent chance to broach the topic. You drag yourself from your bedding, pull off the clothes you had been wearing in the tavern the night before and dress in training garb.

The heavy entrance to your tent shifts around you as you push through and into the crisp air. Your breath creates the lightest of mists with every puff, when night fell again your breath would fog the air in front of your face. You weave amongst the tents that sit between you and the tavern you know that Bull will be lounging in with his chargers.

As the weathered building with its drooping ivy comes into view, you hear a familiar voice calling out in greeting. You catch a glimpse of Cullen but do not slow your steps, brushing him off with a friendly one-handed wave and a weary smile. You do not have time to speak strategy. He nods back and continues about his day, marching after a pair of straggling soldiers letting their wooden swords trail along the ground behind them. You do not hesitate to be an audience member to the scolding they are about to get.

You shoulder the wooden door of the tavern open and revel in the warmth that blankets you upon your entrance. Despite the lack of patrons (it is still early in the day, too early for ale even for the youngest soldiers with livers like fresh plump sausages) the fire pit is burning high. In the deepest, darkest corner is your target. His prickling gaze is drawn to the draft you bring in with you. Bullseye.

You approach. He shifts on the wooden bench he is spread across, leaning back further and apparently making himself even more comfortable. If your childhood tutor could see his posture they would have thrown a scroll of parchment at him like a spear.

“You look surprisingly well,” is his greeting, his voice low and sultry. You cannot tell if he is joking. If you look anything like you feel, then he is full of shit. You raise your brows and nod to a half-open door leading into one of the rooms for rent. The corner of his mouth quirks up and he follows obediently. You close the door to allow the two of you just a tad more privacy.

“This feels serious.”

“It’s not,” you reassure him, too quickly, a blurting of nerves. It is serious, though, to you. “I want to talk about last night.”

“Well, I didn’t think you beckoned me in here to talk about the weather. Chilly, isn’t it?” He grins gently, it almost reassures you.

A pause hangs in the air, dusting your skin with uncomfortable tingles that remind you it is up to you to lead the conversation. You dragged him in here, you need to explain yourself.

“Last night… I… I want-”

He finishes your sentence for you. “Want a repeat performance?”

You meet his eyes tentatively. “I want admission to every showing.”

“Would you wish to be… the sole audience member?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He considers this for a few moments.

“A rather bold request, and so sudden. I don’t believe last night is the root cause, though. Am I right?”

You had never taken him for anything less than a sharp-minded man, but you had also not been expecting him to ask you this so bluntly. You flush, heat rippling over your face, arms and backs of your hands.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“How long?”

“Too long.”

That earns another small grin pulling at his lips.

“Why last night?” He asks. “Why entice me with your silly drinking game?”

“I hoped the drink would give me the courage I lack, instead I got piss-drunk and made a fool of myself.”

Bull chuckles lowly. “You are no fool. I have never thought so and last did not change that. You lead your soldiers immaculately, you fight like a demon, and you drink fairly well for your size.” You laugh quietly at the last item on the list.

“I don’t suppose those are the qualities you are looking for in a lover?” You joke in a tentative tone.

Bull answers you with a rough kiss, grabbing you at the jaw and squeezing your face, so small between his enormous hands. You curl your body into him, wrapping your legs around his left thigh and digging your nails into his bulging shoulders. You grind your cunt down onto his leg and he growls into your mouth. His skin is firm and taut against you, reliably strong as was to be expected from him. He pulls you in tighter, pressing around you until you struggle to breathe, partly from the intense kiss and partly from his grip around your back and waist. You wriggle a little against his chest, letting him know you are growing dizzy.

He pulls back but continues to hold you in his oversized hands. You blink the blur from your eyes and gaze up into his handsome face.

“Did I ever formally introduce you to the inside of my tent?” He asks suddenly, a mischievous glint flashing from his eyes.

You are reminded of the moment the night before that you were unceremoniously dumped onto the floor in a drunken stupor. “I don’t believe so,” you say coyly.

“How rude of me!” He laughs and flings you up and over his shoulder, giving your backside a sharp slap. “Let’s go enjoy some lengthy introductions.” You gasp, you laugh, and you bury your face in his skin happily.

You should probably refuse, Cullen clearly needed your expertise, and your troops were no doubt wondering where you were… but you don’t. You allow The Iron Bull to haul you to his bed and make a babbling fool out of you without a drop of alcohol in sight.


End file.
